


Klokin' Out

by doodnoice



Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Death, Explicit Language, F/M, Female Reader, Humor, Injury, Reader-Insert, Unsure if i'm going to finish this, Violence, old fic, will keep open in case inspiration hits
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-25
Updated: 2017-04-25
Packaged: 2018-10-23 19:59:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10726173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doodnoice/pseuds/doodnoice
Summary: You're just trying to pay your bills and stay alive in a world that's becoming increasingly obsessed with Dethklok. With no where else to turn to, you become a Klokateer and get more than just the sweet work benefits you bargained for.-Reader/Dethklok*





	Klokin' Out

**Author's Note:**

> *(yes, all** of them... at some point. maybe not all at the same time. maybe.)  
> **(yes, even murderface.)

You were supposed to be, like most Klokateers, nameless and faceless to Dethklok. Working in the networking and social media department of their franchise, you rarely, if at all, went outside, let alone saw or interacted with the band members themselves. Now, normally, this would have been quite the letdown--most, if not 99.99% of Klokateers adored Dethklok to the point of religious fanaticism; seeing Dethklok in person was supposed to be the ultimate goal in a Klokateer's life, conversing with one a wet dream, but for you, they were just a band whose music you were alright with. What you really became a Klokateer for was the job opportunity.

Being one of the somewhat rare females within the ranks of the Klokateers, you were afforded luxuries that your male counterparts were not. Yes, your sleeping conditions were near subhuman, yes, your freedom was limited or otherwise nonexistent, and yes, the fear of repercussions due to sexual advances has rendered your social life limited and your sex life null, but the rigid security and stability of a Klokateer job was one you couldn't ignore; especially since life outside of employment under Dethklok wasn't much better for you.

The world, it seemed, was utterly entranced by Dethklok. You weren't sure what caused it, but no matter where you turned everyone seemed to be obsessed with Dethklok in one form or another. If someone indicated they were indifferent to their music, they'd be lucky to be maimed. If someone dared state they disliked their music, they'd be lucky to be killed. 

Before you joined the Klokateers, you witnessed a multitude of Dethklok related deaths and severe injuries perpetrated through horrifying, creative tortures with none of the committing criminals ever being brought to justice. At one point in your life, it became apparent that some of your own family members had been avid participants in at least several of the Dethklok related crimes in your neighborhood when you were younger. Even more apparent was your family's suspicion that you didn't appreciate their music as much as you maybe should have.

Soon, to avoid any form of vigilante extremism, you were forced to seek employment where you were unknown and where you could avoid death or injury by being just another nobody. For the first few years living away from your family, you took odd jobs here and there, but none of them stuck due to most places having the feeling of being wrong in someway. You chalked it up as just being sick of being surrounded by Dethklok paraphernalia and Dethklok supporters for a good portion of your life, but it felt like something more than that.

It wasn't until you hit a dry spell when looking for jobs that you became desperate. Bagging groceries no longer helped stave off debt collectors, and washing dishes hardly made ends meet. As your frustration mounted, your distaste for Dethklok came to grow, and before you knew it, you slipped up, and gave away your feelings to one of your coworkers back at the burger spot you worked at.

And so, you picked up again, only this time deciding the best place to hide was to hide in plain sight. No one would suspect your uncaring for their music when you entrenched yourself in their closest staff, but of course you didn't expect the initiation process.

Sure, you heard of the grueling slave labor their employees worked through, the brandings, the fights, but they never seemed real until you actually participated in them. To be initiated into the ranks of the Klokateer, you must devote your entire being to Dethklok, and only after you've shown you're devoted do you take the ultimate test to fight to prove it.

And you did, but not without going through a hefty deal of suffering.

\---

You were so hot, you could barely see through your mask. The infection on your torso was getting to you.

After your "job interview", which turned out to be a gladiator style showdown between you and five other potential Klokateers, you were the last one standing with barely enough energy to keep yourself conscious. You were injured, of course, considering each of you had your own medieval weapons, but you hadn't been so deathly injured that the organizers for your job interview had let you go to the doctor before they made you start working. Apparently getting nearly disemboweled by a rusty Knights Templar sword wasn't even among the worst injuries they've seen. Even though the jagged gash across your midsection hurt like hell, and the Klokateer uniform they tossed you after branding the back of your neck smelled like it had been literally just been taken off of a rotting corpse, sympathy for rookies was in short supply. 

You had immediately been sent to one of the social media rooms in the Dethklok mansion, where, upon seeing your pain, one friendly female Klokateer you had been assigned to sit next to gave you a bottle of water and an aspirin, before encouraging you to wait it out until your next break thirty minutes from now. But between the spasms of pain and the congealing blood sticking to your disgusting black shirt, you weren't sure you could make it.

You should have just went to the doctor's before finding your station and suffered the consequences of being late, but here you are dying of what is probably an infection that's spread to your blood, because you didn't want to find out what the repercussions were for being late to your workstation.

You're not quite sure how long it was, and you're half sure you passed out halfway through typing some bullshit brainwashing advertisement, but the friendly Klokateer that had given you a water and pain killers tapped you on the shoulder before long and told you that it was time for your break. 

Dizzy, you tripped out of the room and down the hall, vision going blurry as you hurriedly threw yourself into the closest restroom where you fall onto the sink, ripping your sweat soaked mask off and throwing it to the ground as you gently peel up your loose damp tank top to reveal the oozing wound across your torso. You whimper, feeling your eyes well up with tears. 

Fuck, you didn't want to die, not like this. Not after what you've done and gone through for some decent work benefits, but it hurts so bad, and you couldn't leave even under these conditions. With shaking hands you lower your shirt and lean against the sink for support to look at yourself.

You looked like horseshit dipped in even fresher horseshit that was shaped like Murderface's entire body. There was no way you were going to survive this without some sort of divine intervention.

"Hey, what the fuck?" you heard from near the entrance door, causing you to startle and turn towards it defensively. Your back went rigid when you realized who it was. One of your bosses, Pickles, walked right in on your dying moments. And fuck what an impression you must be making looking the way you do.

You coughed and scrambled to the floor to pick up your mask that you were definitely supposed to be wearing at all times no matter what, "M-my lord," you said, although the sound was hoarse and tired, you tried to sound unbothered by your impending death, "what do you need?"

"I don't know, you tell me... ain't this the men's bathroom?" he asked fully entering the restroom and moving closer to you with a curious, somewhat worried frown, "No offense, but when I saw you without that hood on, you looked pretty messed up. You good?"

"Yeah, I-I'm fine, my lord. Please, excuse me--" you stammered, your consciousness wavering as you tried to step away from Pickles as he approached.

Pickles scoffed, "Yeah, well it ain't look that way t'me. Lemme just--" but when Pickles reached for you, you shirked back and unfortunately lost your balance and landed on your back, hitting your (probably) already concussed head hard on the tile, knocking yourself out cold.

Before you blacked out, you thought to yourself what a way to end a career than to have your employer watch you die on the floor in the middle of the men's restroom, your torso bloody as you die of an infected injury basically from the medieval days. Brutal? Yes. Metal? Most definitely. Something you'll brag about in the afterlife? Probably not.


End file.
